He swears viciously under his breath. “Then who? Tell me who the fuck put that fear in you and I’ll kill them.”
I snap, voice cracking. “Mind your own damn business!”
I shove past him and run upstairs, tears burning my eyes. I slam the bedroom door behind me and lock it, then sink onto the edge of the bed, trembling.
The memories come flooding in.
My father never needed much of a reason to hit us. A wrong look. A word spoken out of turn. Milana being too slow or too quiet. He would backhand us across the face, drag us by the hair, use his belt until our backs and legs were covered in welts.
I learned early to step in front of my little sister, to take the worst of it so she wouldn’t have to. I still remember the sound of his voice when he was angry, the smell of vodka on his breath, the way he’d laugh coldly while we cried.
Artyom and Mikhail didn’t know for a long time. Father made sure we were too terrified to tell them. By the time they found out, the damage had already been done. After that, my brothers protected us fiercely, but the fear never fully left me. That instinctive flinch… it’s still wired into my body.
I hug my knees to my chest, staring down at the diamond ring on my finger.
Maxim isn’t my father.
But for one terrifying second tonight, my body didn’t know that.
CHAPTER TEN
Calina
For the next two days, I do everything I can to avoid Maxim.
I have breakfast brought to my room. I eat dinner in my room. I time my movements downstairs only when I’m sure he’s not around.
I hear him sometimes, the low rumble of his voice on the phone, his footsteps in the hallway, the sound of his bedroom door closing at night, but I never come out. I can’t face him after what happened. After I flinched like a scared child in front of him.
I keep expecting him to come banging on my door, to gloat, to mock me for showing weakness. But he doesn’t. And the memory of the fury in his eyes when he thought my brothers had hurt me… he looked genuinely angry on my behalf. Protective, even. I didn’t expect that from him.
Kira has called twice, trying to pull me into wedding planning. Flowers, colors, dresses, I’ve refused every time. I don’t care. I can’t bring myself to care about any of it. A part of me still hasn’t accepted that this is real. That in less than two weeks I’m actually going to marry Maxim Orlov.
On the third morning, I finally summon what little courage I have left.
I walk down the hall to his bedroom and knock. The door swings open almost immediately.
And the sight that greets me steals every word from my mouth.
Maxim is standing there shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging grey sweatpants that sit dangerously low on his hips. His upper body is a masterpiece of hard muscle and ink. Tattoos cover his chest, shoulders, and arms. Intricate designs, Bratva symbols, and dark patterns that only make him look more lethal.
His abdomen is sculpted, eight clearly defined abs flexing with every breath. The V-line disappearing into his sweatpants should be illegal.
It feels unfair. One person shouldn’t be allowed to look this good.
My mouth goes dry. Heat floods my face and rushes lower, pooling between my thighs. I can’t stop staring. My eyes tracethe lines of his chest, the way his tattoos move when he shifts his weight, the sheer strength in his arms and shoulders. I’m practically ogling him, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t look away.
He’s too close. The scent of his soap and clean skin hits me, and my body reacts instantly, nipples tightening, that unwanted ache building low in my belly.
He clears his throat, the low sound snapping me out of my shameless staring.
“Did you want something, Calina?”
My cheeks burn as I realize he just caught me openly ogling his bare chest and abs like a starving woman.
I step past him into his bedroom before I can lose my nerve.
His room is nothing like I expected. It’s not the cold, all-black space I imagined. The walls are a deep charcoal gray with warm wood accents. A massive king-sized bed dominates the center, dressed in crisp navy and silver linens.
